


So I Fall (When You're Not Around)

by QixxiQ



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: (vague), Angst, Bruises, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QixxiQ/pseuds/QixxiQ
Summary: He dully imagines the varied colors he’ll be painted with later.(alternate, whumpy scenes for Silver Smile)





	So I Fall (When You're Not Around)

John barely has his trousers buttoned before he flees into the streets, feeling every sound the city throws at him. It’s not what they think, it can’t be. Shame and frustration curl together, a lead ball in his chest. Unlike the dizzying heat that blanketed his mind and stole his breath last night, now, in the hard morning light filtering between the buildings, he's chilled and shaking, like he's come through a thick, damp fog. He feels sick. Mouth full of cotton, head stuffed with wet wool, stomach twisting with every fleeting image and disjointed emotion that Laszlo's questioning had pulled from him. It all wraps around him, through him, making it impossible to set his thoughts straight. While his mind is short of details his aching, heavy body seems to acutely remember every moment and John fully intends to slip quietly into bed to let his body sleep its way through forgetting what happened the night before.

Instead, he slinks off to the bathroom, bending to his grandmother's wishes.

The sickening haze hasn’t fully left his head as he fills the bathtub, the steam from the nearly scalding water dizzies him. He sways and leans against the vanity for support until he feels well enough again to attempt undressing. Sweat has dried his shirt into a stiff and unyielding trap that scratches at his skin as he wrestles it off and every turn his body makes sends stiff agony coursing through him. A glance in the slowly fogging mirror reveals a blotchy pattern of red marks scattered across his ribs and belly, down as far as the mirror can see. John doesn’t move to see more even after he lets his trousers pool around his ankles. He dully imagines the varied colors he’ll be painted with later.

John sucks air through his teeth as he lowers himself down and then does nothing to wash away what might be clinging to his skin. Instead, he tilts his head back against the cool edge of the tub, closes his eyes, and doesn’t think about the places the water stings.

Nightmares come then, in vivid reds and muted pale pinks. Stripped and spread open by hands with the flesh peeling away. Sharp pains when he tries to move away, crushed by a face he recognizes. John sputters awake, coughing against the water that’s gone up his nose and the clawing grip of disbelief in his stomach. Slipping against the bottom of the tub John nearly goes under again before he manages to grip the side. He drags in a ragged breath and coughs again, gasping, one hand wrapping around his middle and the other grasping the side of the tub so hard that he feels his nails bending against the porcelain. John trembles in the rapidly cooling water until he regains his senses and calms his breathing, then, remembering what he was meant to do in the bath in the first place, gives himself a cursory scrub.

 

  
The girl his grandmother has brought him will probably make some man very happy. John, however, barely has the interest to play nicely with her forced small talk. He shifts in his seat, listing to one side in an attempt to ease the some of his growing pain. Dark charm spills from his lips before he calls her the wrong name. He spends the rest of the awkward encounter white knuckling the arm of his chair and being a disappointment.

 

  
The excitement John feels at remembering possibly important details washes over the constant dull aching that curls and swims through his body. He feels almost nothing as he vaults up the stairs, eager to offer Laszlo all he has. But what he remembers isn't enough. Isn’t right. Isn’t useful. So Laszlo forces him back into that godforsaken stretch of the city. He considers begging off and going back to a warm, soft bed. Stripped of the emotional buoy his pains begin to creep back, wrapping around every bit of him.

As though he can read John's mind Laszlo speaks. "You're the only one who knows what Sally looks like, John."

The only one, John. It washes over him, bathing him in a warm glow that stays well into the carriage ride.

 

  
Each step feels increasingly tense as they prowl the streets. John is painfully aware of being back where they found him last night. His fingers twitch at every sound and sweat dots the back of his neck, breath stuttering when he catches anyone looking at him. The cool of the night begins to work its way through his coat and he shudders.

He, finally, thankfully, finds Sally and darts forward. The boy struggles when John grabs him, twists in his grasp, an arm connecting with John's tender side. White bursts of pain race through his midsection, momentarily blinding him. He gasps and lets Sally go. Laszlo brushes past him, hot in the pursuit of answers he thinks the boy has.

John barely holds himself back from dropping to one knee. His vision greys, blood pounding in his ears. He can vaguely hear Laszlo, questioning Sally over the rushing in his head. John takes a moment and then straightens, burying a wince by turning his face towards the wall. He limps closer to Laszlo in time to see him hand Sally a few folded bills.

Sally looks John over with a knowing smirk as he passes before disappearing back into the dark street.

“You do know he already has the fortune of my entire billfold,” John chides, leaning against a nearby wall with an arm wrapped protectively around himself.

“He may be more likely to provide us with information next time,” Laszlo assures him as though paying children in the street for information on their terrible lives will become a regular occurrence for them. Maybe it will. John's stomach knots itself at the thought. "They may have known their killer, John. Trusted him." Laszlo turns to leave the alley, rattling off information and paying no attention to John's precarious condition.

As he pushes himself off the wall his vision dims again. John sways. "Las..." He isn't sure if he's actually made any noise. He reaches out, but Laszlo seems so far away, disappearing down a darkening tunnel.

Then there's a steady weight next to him and an arm around his waist. John flinches at the contact and the grip loosens, but not enough so that John falls. "Can you make it to the carriage?" Laszlo. He sounds concerned. "John? If you can't I have to leave you here to get Cyrus."

John's almost sure that Laszlo doesn't mean it as a threat, but still the thought of being left on these streets, hurt and alone, spurs him. "I can make it." He wheezes.

They weave along the sidewalk and by the time they near the carriage John mostly has his legs under him. "I'm all right." He mumbles and Laszlo waves off Cyrus before he steps off the front to help them. His hand is warm against John's back as he guides him into the seat.

It's a jerky start and John closes his eyes for a moment. Laszlo is quiet, watching him, waiting. When John drags his eyes open he tries to focus on Laszlo's mildly impatient face. “A bruise,” he says, simply, lightly, half hoping that Laszlo will let it drop.

“From Sally, just now?” Laszlo frowns, but when John doesn't answer he continues. “Then from where?”

“It’s not important.”

“Last night?” he pushes.

John's own hand tightens against his middle causing a steady radiating pain.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It’s an odd mix of annoyance and concern radiating off of Laszlo. John takes a moment to mull over why he didn’t say something earlier, why he didn’t say anything the moment he woke, shaking and disorientated the morning after. "I didn't fully realize until I had gotten home," he sighs. “And I didn’t consider the extent until now.” It’s a truth and as close to the truth as he’s willing to speak.

Laszlo huffs and shakes his head so minutely that John wonders if he’s expressing them at thoughts in his own mind rather than towards John’s words. "If your dalliances are progressing to physical injuries-"

John gapes, mind reeling at this continuing implication. "You think I wanted this?" He sputters, mouth working without sound. "That I asked to be beaten and torn at by, by..." He can't bring himself to finish the sentence. He raises the back of a trembling hand up to press against his mouth. “My god, Laszlo.”

The carriage halts and John stumbles in his haste to exit. His vision threatens to grey out again, but he manages to take a few angry steps before Laszlo catches him.

Laszlo doesn’t apologize. But there’s something so terribly soft in his eyes that John nearly looks away. "Show me."

"Absolutely not." John tries to keep that burst of righteous anger around him, but Laszlo’s face, his warm hand on John’s arm, the way he draws closer and speaks quietly undoes his resolve.

"If there is enough pain to make you falter..." It feels so like a compliment to John that he follows Laszlo into the house without a thought.

  
Once in the spare bedroom Laszlo leads him to, John begins to slowly undress. He lays his jacket over the back of a chair. Then his vest. He’s even slower at removing his shirt. Laszlo doesn‘t offer help, only watches quietly, and John suddenly feels self-conscience. He fumbles through the last few buttons and then turns away, swallowing a stab of pain as he pulls too far to one side.

As the shirt drops away he thinks he hears a noise from Laszlo. John can only assume that the bruising looks worse than it did earlier in the day. Darker and more vibrant against his pale skin.

“You’re sure you remember nothing of last night?” Laszlo’s voice is shockingly close, John hadn’t even heard him move. He flinches as Laszlo’s fingers brush over the bruising on his side, startled at the touch.

John swallows and shakes his head, eyes on a corner of the room. “Nothing of any importance, no.” What he does remember (hands, so many hands, and out of focus faces, and pain) can not possibly be of any use to Laszlo. Even if he saw what he dreamt he did... no, it's too hard to tell his nightmares from his reality.

Laszlo’s full attention is on John‘s battered body. He rounds to stand in front of John, fingers never leaving John‘s skin, fingertips tracing along the outline of each bruise. “Anything you remember may be important, John. You just might be unable to see it.” He pauses his hand, turning up to look at John's face. “Tell me.”

“I told you. I don’t rememb- _ah_.” His eyes snap to Laszlo’s carefully passive expression as he presses firmly, painfully, against John’s side.

“I believe you’ve fractured one of your ribs.” He says softly.

“Yes, _I_ fractured it,“ John mutters. He forces his eyes back to the corner and breathes through his nose.

Fingers press into the ribs on John’s other side. He groans, but there’s no sharp pain there.

“These are only bruised.” A small shift in phrasing.  
  
There‘s a crack near the molding and John focuses on that. “Are you done?” He asks peevishly as Laszlo’s fingers float over his stomach, skimming gently over the bruising there. His skin prickles and John swallows noisily.

Laszlo presses harder, experimentally probing the organs not protected by John’s ribcage. “Have you experienced any blood in your urine?”

“What?” John gasps out as Laszlo hits another more tender area. He can feel his face heating up and his gaze flicks briefly to Laszlo. But he's focused on his fingers burying themselves deeper into John’s middle. John wonders if he should be laying down for this, but Laszlo didn’t suggest it and John wasn’t about to assume.

“Kidney bruising,” Laszlo answers simply, academically, like he’s going through some checklist.

“I don’t recall,” John finally says, tersely, staring at the crack again. He doesn’t recall. He doesn’t recall if he’s used the facilities at all, though he thinks he must have. He barely recalls having anything to drink today. And he knows better than to tell Laszlo that he’s probably only running on a few mouthfuls of alcohol.

Laszlo makes a noise that sounds like he's disappointed. John pretends that maybe Laszlo is only concerned for his health, instead of disappointed at him in general.

His fingers trail lower, pressing in different spots, gauging John’s wincing and harsh breaths. His fingers dip lower still, brushing against the waistband of John’s trousers, fingertips grazing just below the fabric where the marks on his skin don‘t end.

"Laszlo..." He feels faint again, heart pounding against his breastbone. A part of John wants him to continue to the bruising that's scattered down his thighs. But as Laszlo’s fingers hover over the button of John’s trousers John twitches harshly. “I think you’ve seen quite enough, Laszlo.”

He glances over to meet Laszlo’s eyes and finds his face creased with an awful, knowing sadness. “Of course, John.” He looks a bit lost, unsure of how to continue. Then he leans behind John and picks up his shirt. He presses it into John’s hands before leading him over to the bed.

He keeps his hand on John the entire time, guiding him down and John feels like a delicate piece of glass, so carefully placed on the soft mattress. He wrinkles the shirt in his hands but doesn‘t move to put it back on.

Laszlo opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “Stay here tonight, John.” His fingers flex lightly against John’s shoulder and then Laszlo pulls back. He looks like he’s going to speak again, pour volumes of words out, enough to drown them both, but he doesn’t. He just nods goodnight to John and then disappears out the door, shutting it with a soft click behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Monthly Whump Prompt Challenge - prompt was to write a scene where the whumpee hides their injury and is on the brink of passing out. They want to tell their carer, but can only whisper their name before collapsing.
> 
> If you're here because of that and haven't seen The Alienist... basic background is it's set in the 1890's, John is an illustrator, Laszlo is his friend and a psychologist, and they're trying to find a murderer of young boys. Just before the fic starts John went and questioned the wrong people, got drugged, maybe sexually assaulted, (I added the beating because, I mean, that also obviously would have happened), was found wandering without pants, and Laszlo just thinks he got drunk and went off to a brothel with some young boys.


End file.
